


I'm Gonna Do The Things You Do

by toadpuff



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:17:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toadpuff/pseuds/toadpuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shaw needs a place to stay, and Lewis needs a roommate (and a little protection). A match made in the lowest circle of hell. Set after the events of "Relevance."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is leupagus's fault.

There’s a knock on the door at two a.m., right as Lewis sits down in front of Adult Swim with a bowl of Froot Loops. He’s still sore from his beatdown the week before, and he knows people are asking questions really loudly about what happened to Mullins and Grishin, so he considers pretending to not be home, but the knocking continues. Not fast or violent, just steady, solid, and high up on the door. He heaves himself off the couch and grabs his baseball bat and stares through the peephole into the empty hallway.

“Really?” he snaps to nobody, and turns to go back to the couch.

“Lewis, you can let me in or I can let myself in.” a female voice drawls from the other side. _Her._ The little ninja chick from last week. “Guess which one ends with you still having a door.”

Lewis lets his head thud against the door and unlocks it, going back to the couch so she can open it up. “I didn’t tell anybody.” he says as he sits back down. He keeps the bat across his lap. He’d probably be scared if he wasn’t so exhausted, but he’s running on about three hours of sleep every night for the past week. He hasn’t even left the apartment, in case someone knows he was the last person to see Grishin and Mullins alive and feels like asking him about it. “ _Nobody_.”

“I know.” she says. She locks the door behind her and leans back against it, smiling at him. “I’d have visited you way before now if you had.”

Lewis rubs his eyes. “What do you _want_?”

“I’m gonna be in the city a little longer than I thought, and I need a place to stay.”

This is the stupidest thing that’s ever happened in Lewis’s life. “No,” he tries.

She gives him a few seconds to soak in his own annoyance before asking, “Did you think that would work?”

“Not really,” Lewis tells her, burying his face in his hands. When he looks up again, she’s strolling around the apartment, stopping to scan over the painted milk-crate shelves stacked against the wall. She touches his _Transmetropolitan_ and his _Afro Samurai_ and his _Nextwave_ , his Tarantinos and his anime bootlegs, and jerks her hand back when she gets to Tank's terrarium on the last shelf.

“Why?” she asks.

“You scared of spiders?” he shoots back, feeling triumphant in some way he can’t explain.

“Lots of desert in Iraq, and lots of camel spiders in the desert.” she says.

Lack of sleep and too much adrenaline make Lewis perk up at that. “You were in Iraq? My sister’s there now.”

“Yeah, I know. This is her apartment, isn‘t it?”

Lewis doesn’t ask how she knows that, just accepts it and digs moodily into his cereal. With a last mistrustful look at Tank, she crosses the room to sit on the coffee table in front of him. “I’ll pay you for as long as I’m here, and more importantly, you won’t have to worry about anybody coming after you.” She picks up the bat before he can grab it, startling him into almost dropping his cereal. “This won’t do you much good against a gun, you know?”

“I know.”

She sets the bat aside and offers him her hand. He takes it warily; her grip is firm, even though his hand dwarfs hers. “My name is Shaw.”

“Lewis. Obviously.“ He sighs. “My sister _really_ isn’t gonna like this.”

*

Denise loves it. _Fucking loves it._ He gets a record-breaking five hours of sleep, then Skypes her later in the morning while she’s eating dinner. He tries and fails to explain the situation, then gives his laptop over to Shaw while he goes to take a shower and have a panic attack. He doesn’t know what Shaw says or doesn’t say to her, but when he comes out ten minutes later, they’re chatting like old friends. For all he knows, they are.

He gives Tank a cricket and sulks around the edges of the room. Shaw talks to Denise about Iraq, about war, about politics, and--most terrifyingly--about Lewis.

“He’s a good kid.” Denise says fondly. Lewis stares at the back of his laptop’s lid. “Smart. Too smart for all the bullshit he’s into.”

“I’m here, I can hear you.” Lewis reminds her from across the room.

“I know.” Denise’s tinny voice says, the crackling reminding his that she’s thousands of miles away. “I’m running PT tonight, so I have to go. It was great meeting you, Shaw. Lewis, try to keep your ass out of trouble.”

“What about the rest of me?” Lewis answers.

“She’s rolling her eyes.” Shaw informs him.

Denise says “Yep.“ Then, “I love you. Be safe.”

“You too.” Lewis says quietly. Shaw gives Denise a small salute of a wave and shuts the laptop, settling back against the couch to stare at Lewis. “Oh my god, what? Should you even be on the internet?” Shaw folds her arms. “I thought you were, like, an outlaw or something. Can’t they track you?”

Shaw starts laughing, and slides a fingernail-sized USB out of his laptop and holds it up for him to see. “Not that they would, but this is pretty intense encryption software. Anybody who tried to record or tap into that conversation would have ended up with…I don’t know, cat videos instead of your sister and me.”

“How can you not know what your own encryption software does?”

“It’s not mine, A, and B, the only person who could explain it to you is decomposing as we speak.” She goes scary-dead behind the eyes and pockets the USB. “Now, about your problem. I have an idea.”

Shaw’s idea is _flushing his entire remaining supply down the toilet_ before he can stop her. Not that he’d be able to stop her anyway, judging by how the sharp elbow she plants in his solar plexus knocks him into the fetal position before he even hits the floor. “Ugh,” he groans into the linoleum.

Shaw ignores him and continues to empty each baggie into the toilet bowl. “It was shitty quality anyway. Mostly laundry detergent.” She pauses. “You still alive?” Lewis grunts again and forces himself to his feet. “Good. If you want out of this, I can get you out of it.” She steps past him and out of the bathroom. “But you have to mean it. Don’t waste my time.”

“Okay, Mom.” 

She whirls on him. “What?”

“Okay. Jesus. _Okay._ ”

Shaw beams. “We have work to do.”

*

Work turns out to be a lot of sitting around while Shaw leaves the apartment for hours on end. After three days of this, Lewis is feeling somewhere between homicidally irritated and suicidally bored, and he decides to follow her. 

He keeps up with her for thirteen blocks before he loses her inside a Duane Reade. He wanders aimlessly, feeling like an idiot, and finds himself jacked up against the nearby wall of magazines. 

He gets acquainted with some bodybuilder’s artfully-Photoshopped package on the cover of _Men’s Health_ while Shaw whispers, “You did better than I thought you would.” 

“Ow.” Lewis answers. Bright yellow font above the bodybuilder’s right shoulder screams **LIVING YOUR BEST LIFE NOW!** Lewis snorts and drops his head until Shaw lets his go. He turns around, leans against the wall, and sighs. The place is nearly empty, so he doesn’t even bother trying to get help. He’s not sure he even could, in good conscience, subject any innocent strangers to Shaw. He will take his punishment like a man. Or maybe a baby, going by how he kind of wants to cry.

She folds her arms, considering him. Just when Lewis is getting uncomfortable, Shaw says “Cross the street every once in awhile, and keep five or six people between you and your target at all times. It’s better for cover, and if they make you and start shooting, you’ve got a buffer.”

“That’s so messed up.” Lewis tells her.

Shaw shrugs, and tosses him a cell phone from her pocket. It’s a shitty little burner phone, and the screen is cracked. There’s also a horrifying clump of blood and hair stuck to it, and Lewis nearly throws it back at her. “Oh, whoops.” Shaw says with a grin, brushing the phone off. 

“Did you. Like. Did you kill somebody with this?” Lewis hisses.

“No.” Shaw says. “I got it off of the kid who took over your old corner. He’s gonna need a new haircut to go with the patch I shaved off with that,” She points at the phone. “But he gave me your dead boss’s boss easily enough, so I didn’t have to do much damage. Next time he calls, we’ll set up a meeting.” Shaw takes a step closer to him, and if he wasn’t already flush against the magazines, he’d move backward. He tries, anyway. “I just want to reiterate that I’m very serious about this, and you need to be, too.” 

“I am. _I am._ ” She smiles, almost warmly, like if Satan was a guidance counselor.

“Good. We’ll finish this tomorrow, then.” Shaw takes the phone back and slips it into her pocket. “Go back to the apartment. I have a few things I need to get set up.”

Lewis shakes his head. “Why are you doing this? You got a little brother or something?” he asks, half expecting her to knock him out.

Shaw just shrugs. “I used to.”

Lewis feels like he’s been invited in, somehow, even though she offers nothing else and practically disappears in a puff of smoke, she’s gone so fast. He takes his time getting back to the apartment, enjoying the mild breeze snaking through the city, and realizes abruptly that he’s calm, for the first time in a long time.

Obviously, that’s when he hears squealing tires and the pop of a semiauto before he’s on the ground with something big and heavy on top of him. The thing disappears quickly, and Lewis rolls around until he hits a trash can he can hide behind. The wind is still knocked out of him, but he can focus enough to see a beefy dude in a suit returning fire at the busted-up El Camino as it speeds away and out of sight, followed closely by an equally-busted Tiburon.

The dude turns back to him and offers his hand. Lewis takes it reluctantly, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. “Are you all right?” the guy asks.

Lewis feels a little like vomiting, but nothing hurts except his elbow where he landed on it. “Fine.” he grunts, rubbing his sore arm. 

“My name is John. You’re in danger. Those men were--”

Lewis waves his hand, interrupting him. “I know. It’ll be fine. Thanks.” The guy looks bemused. He doesn’t look like a cop, so Lewis isn’t really worried about pissing him off. 

The man frowns, presses his fingers to his ear, and says “Finch, they took shots at him in broad daylight. They’re serious.”

Lewis starts back toward the apartment again, followed closely by John, who’s still muttering quietly at whatever’s on the other end of his conversation. Lewis thinks about taking off, because the guy moves like an athlete but probably hasn’t been one in a good ten years--but instead he stops and looks at him. “How did you find me?” he asks. "Did Shaw ask you to babysit me or something?" He tries to go for "indignant" because he doesn't need somebody watching over him, but then he thinks about how things have been working out for him since Denise left and, well.

John blinks at him a couple of times, but he puts his gun away. "Shaw," he says slowly.

"Yeah. Shaw. Tiny? Scary? Shiny hair and guns everywhere?"

"That's a pretty good description. How do you know her?"

" _Know_ her, fuck," Lewis says. They arrive that the building; he recognizes the asshole slouched by the door and tries to be nonchalant about hiding behind John. "Uh, that dude's probably one of those people putting me in danger, just so you know."

"Got it," John says, all casual, but when Reg (Lewis is pretty sure the guy's name is Reg) pulls out a piece John just shoots him in the foot, bam. It's hilarious. Lewis tries to keep a straight face as Reg starts crying. John takes away his gun and says, very serious, "You should probably go to the hospital. There's one about six blocks that way."

Reg whimpers and Lewis hiccups, trying not to laugh. This is shaping up to be not that bad a day, aside from all the attempted murder. "I don't have a car, man. Hoop was supposed to pick me up after we were done--" he gestures awkwardly at Lewis, and Lewis can kind of appreciate that it's a little weird having to talk about the dude you were supposed to kill in front of the man who just shot your pinkie toe off.

"That's not my problem," John says, but Lewis thinks about it. He's probably had less than a dozen conversations with Reg his whole life, but Reg and him went to the same elementary school together, and Lewis is pretty sure that Reg is the one who gave him one of his extra pairs of mittens one day when Lewis had forgotten his and it started snowing during recess. That was a long time ago, but still.

"It's my problem," Lewis decides. "C'mon upstairs, I've got stuff so you don't bleed out before you limp your ass to the hospital."

"He's not going to bleed out," John protests, but Lewis ignores him, grabs Reg's arm and steers him inside. John follows them in, looking like a grumpy pit bull that didn't get to rip out anybody's throat with his teeth today.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find friends and tarantulas in the strangest places.

Shaw comes home a couple hours later. She's got a huge bruise on her face and she's whistling, which are both terrifying. Even more terrifying is how she stops whistling when she sees John on the couch. Lewis is checking the gauze he packed onto Reg’s wound while Reg’s head lolls around in a drugged stupor.

“Well, hey. Doctor Frankenstein let you out to play?” Shaw asks on her way to the fridge for a beer, because of course they hate each other. John frowns like he doesn’t understand the reference. “What are you doing here?” Shaw demands, before he can say anything else. There’s something glinty and ferocious about her, but also a little playful, and Lewis is terrified. He quickly rewraps the gauze while Shaw and John square off across the living room.

“Protecting Lewis. Any information you have about the men trying to kill him would be greatly appreciated” John answers blandly.

Shaw stares at John for a minute, and he stares back. Lewis has never seen people who want to throw down this badly before in his life, but for the sake of his mental wellbeing and the furniture’s continued wholeness, he’s grateful that they don’t. “What men trying to kill him?” Shaw asks eventually.

John’s mouth thins out. Shaw’s smile just gets huge and crazy, but she finishes her beer, tosses the bottle in the trash, and turns to Lewis. “Your problem is almost taken care of. The man you were really working for was named Harvey, by the way, and he screams like a little baby when you rip out his nipple rings.”

“Good to know,” Lewis says, feeling faint.

“Finch, we have a problem.” John mutters, tapping his ear.

“Dude, Jack Bauer, we can _hear you_.” Lewis snaps, suddenly over the whole situation.

“Shut up,” John orders, then listens. “Pleasant as ever.” he says after a minute, cutting a nasty look at Shaw. Another pause, and then he glances at Lewis again. “Hard to tell. He might have Stockholm syndrome.” More silence. John checks the windows and smiles fondly. “I always do.” he says, tapping the earpiece again. Lewis looks at Shaw, desperate to understand and desperate to never understand, because: crazy. Shaw keeps her eyes on John while she cleans a gun Lewis didn’t even know she had. He feels extraneous. Reg chooses that moment to sit up abruptly, look down at his mutilated foot, and start shrieking. “You should probably get him to a hospital now.” John suggests.

“You talking to us?” Lewis asks him, slinging Reg’s arm over his shoulders and dragging him toward the door.

“No, no.” Shaw says, pulling Reg off and dropping him onto the couch. Reg passes out again. Logically, Lewis knows you can’t bleed out from a missing toe, and Reg would have gone into shock already if that was where this was going, but he’d like to get him to the hospital and into the hands of someone who doesn’t have part of a nursing degree and two psychopaths in close proximity.

“Listen to me. I am taking Reg to the hospital. You guys can work through whatever shit you need to while I'm gone, or you can help me get him there." Lewis tells them. 

"They call the police in for gunshot wounds." John says, like Lewis didn't know that. He's seen _Law and Order_. "You sure you wanna be connected to this?"

"He was waiting outside my apartment to kill me and that's why he got shot. I'm not worried about him telling a cop that." Lewis shoulders Reg once again. "Help me."

*****

Somehow, Shaw convinces Lewis to just leave Reg on a bench outside. Lewis pats him on the side of the head with a whispered "Good luck, moron," and runs back to the SRT-4 Shaw stole from the parking lot of the building next door, diving into the backseat a split second before Shaw takes off.

They drive in silence for fifteen minutes until John starts talking to his imaginary ear buddy again. Shaw meets Lewis's eyes in the rearview mirror, and he shakes his head before settling back down to type out six increasingly despondent emails to Denise that he deletes before sending. Even if she got them, there's no point in making her worry, except for how she totally gave Shaw her blessing about this whole stupid roommates idea and so she probably deserves it. _DENISE !!!_ he types, and hits send.

His phone lights up a few minutes later. _WHAT !!!!!!!_

No, she doesn't really deserve it. Not right now. He can guilt-trip her after he's sure he isn't dying tonight. _hypothetically if i got another tarantula would you be mad_.

A few minutes of nothing but John arguing with Shaw about whoever John is talking to through the earpiece, then: _fine but i'd make you eat tank_.

_fine goodnight._

_night._

Lewis sits up and leans forward over the center console. "Where are we going?"

"Your boss's boss's boss's house." Shaw answers. 

"And what are we doing there?"

"Tendering your resignation."

*****

"Oh god, worst plan." Lewis hisses.

His boss's boss's boss's place is a huge-ass McMansion on the coastline, surrounded by what looks like electrified prison-grade fences. It's the kind of tacky Jerseylicious nightmare Lewis hates. There are columns, and it's the color of Kraft mac and cheese in the moonlight reflecting off the water. "What _is_ the plan?"

"You wait in the car, and Shaw and I will make it very clear to Mister McClantock that it would be extremely stupid to try and interact with you in any capacity, revenge or otherwise." John answers, staring at the house through binoculars from where they're perched on a dune. 

"And that just works for you people? You go in and tell him to leave me alone and he does? That doesn't seem like a thing that really happens."

Shaw claps him on the shoulder. "This ain't a peace talk." she says, climbs to her feet, and heads down the dune with a--a _goddamn machine gun_ slung over her shoulder. 

"Where did she get that?" Lewis asks, pointing, but John is already following her down. He thinks about going with them, and some tiny, suicidally stupid part of him forces him up to his knees, but he lays back down on his stomach when Shaw and John split up with military precision. This really isn't his thing.

The dude who sneaks up behind him five minutes later and krav magas him into a half-nelson doesn't quite believe that, going by how he drags Lewis down to the house despite Lewis's repeated flailing protests. The guy is a brick shithouse, so Lewis gives up when he feels like he's about to wrench his own neck out of place in his struggling. He manages one good smack to the guy's nuts before he's tossed down on the back deck with a gun pointed at his head. He wants to cry a little bit, but he doesn't. He just stares up past the gun at the guy who wants to kill him. He looks like Brian Dennehy and he's wearing a bathrobe and a gold chain as thick as Lewis's middle finger, and Lewis makes the decision there that he is _not getting killed by this motherfucker._ He sits back on his heels and waits for the guy or one of his three unrealistically muscular friends to talk. 

"So you're the asshole who got my guys shot up." Bathrobe says. "Do you even know who I am?"

"Sheriff Will Teasle." Lewis answers.

"No." Bathrobe tells him, and he says it like he's never even seen _First Blood_. Lewis is embarrassed for him. "My name is Greg McClantock. It's only fair you know who's sending you to hell."

Lewis displays some Zenlike mastery of his body and its actions by not rolling his eyes at that. He waits expectantly, distantly sad about Denise and Tank and the friends he has left. He always figured it would end up like this.

"Last words?" McClantock asks. "Make 'em good. I want somethin' to laugh about later."

Lewis glances up at the sky. There's no light pollution, so the stars are clear and more beautiful than he's ever seen. He catches sight of something on the roof, and recognizes it. Gun muzzle. He'd been wondering where Shaw was. As he watches it, the gun muzzle jerks once to the left, then a second time. Deliberate. "Can I stand up?" Lewis asks quickly. "Kinda want to die on my feet." 

McClantock snorts. "Good idea." Lewis stands up slowly, palms out, and edges his way over to the deck railing. He shuts his eyes and listens to the gunshots, four sprays of bullets in quick succession. McClantock and his goons barely have time to yell before they're all leaking onto the poorly-stained wood. Lewis cracks one eye just as Shaw drops, catlike, onto the deck. 

"You all right?" she asks.

Lewis opens his eyes the rest of the way. "I don't even really care about being bait anymore, but holy shit, start telling me when you're going to do it." Lewis snaps. Shaw just smiles. A yell comes from inside the house, and Shaw has the gun up and one of her elbows in his abdomen before he registers it fully, pushing him back behind her. He dwarfs her by like four people, but she's got the gun, so he's fine with the arrangement. 

There's one more shout, and a man comes flying through the back doors, shattering what is most likely serious hurricane glass with his body. He crumples, unconscious or dead, and John steps out after him. "Clear." he says, one hand on his ear. "Everyone here is dead or on their way there. Good riddance." John listens for a minute, then smiles and says, "I think I know what to do with it."

" _Who are you even talking to?_ " Lewis asks, and Shaw starts to laugh as she herds him back toward the car.

*****

Shaw up and disappears one day, after five weeks of lounging around the apartment with him. They've worked through a good chunk of his movie collection, mostly punctuated by impromptu self-defense lessons and Shaw taking mysterious calls on the street outside and coming back silent and drawn when they're finished. He doesn't quite gather the courage to ask what they're about, not even when he comes out of his room one night to find her sitting on the couch with Tank cupped in her hands. He doesn't tell her handling tarantulas is a bad idea, just warns her to wash her hands and goes back to bed.

He thinks it's going well, that he could get used to having her there (true to her promise, nobody's come looking for him, and she's paid both their shares of the rent for two months in advance), and then she's gone. There's no note, no trace of her left. He feels sick, like he does every time Denise ships out. "Shit," he says to the empty apartment. He scratches his head and looks around dumbly, not sure of what to do in the bizarre vacuum she left behind, and is thankfully interrupted by a knock at the door. He expects it to be her, but it's some short weedy guy in glasses, carrying a briefcase. "I've accepted Jesus Christ into my life." Lewis says, slowly pushing the door shut. The guy presses the edge of the briefcase firmly but not rudely.

"Please, Lewis, I'll only need a moment of your time. My name is Harold Avis. We have a mutual acquaintance in Ms. Shaw."

Lewis stops, and steps aside. He still doesn't really know what Shaw did for a living, but this guy looks more librarian than dangerous. Lewis shuts the door and gestures to the couch, taking a seat in the recliner across from him. The man sits with some difficulty, setting the briefcase down on the coffee table. "As you may have noticed, Ms. Shaw is gone--"

"Where is she?" Lewis asks, unable to stop himself. 

"I'm as interested in her whereabouts as you are, but she seems to be in the wind for now. She left me an interesting message, however, about you. She seems to be quite fond of you." Avis seems to allow himself a small smile. He opens the briefcase and pulls out a manila envelope, which he hands to Lewis. Lewis opens it immediately, sliding out a packet of papers. "That's a little over a million dollars in an account opened under your name. The funds are the bulk of what was recovered at the former residence of Mr. McClantock several weeks ago. Ms. Shaw requested I set up the account for you, with the express instructions that I urge you to, in her words, ' _Get your ass back in school._ '" Avis blinks owlishly. "The rest of the money my associate found paid for this apartment in full."

" _What_?"

"This should be a nice surprise for your sister when she visits next month, I assume?"

Lewis feels slightly faint. "Uh. Yeah." He puts the envelope down and leans forward, putting his head between his knees so he doesn't pass out. He doesn't look up until he hears Avis close the briefcase and stand.

"I do hope you'll consider what Ms. Shaw said. Have a good afternoon, Lewis." Avis tells him, and leaves Lewis alone to stare at his million dollars. He calls the bank once his hands work again, gives them the account number and password on the paperwork, and confirms that he's the proud new owner of a ton of money and a burgeoning anxiety disorder.

*****

Thirty-six weeks and one round of clinicals down later, Shaw knocks on his door with a nasty head wound and a smile. He's actually ready for it this time.

"Go sit," he says. "I'll get the alcohol."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this, and thank you/no thank you to Leupagus, who made me finish it.


End file.
